


As all the certitudes we had slip away

by Amazaria



Category: Riddle-Master Trilogy - Patricia A. McKillip
Genre: Ambiguous major character death and NO I'm not saying anything more, And made it worse, Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I am trying SO HARD not to spoil anything, Me before I write anything, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilery until you reach the middle of the second book, What if I took a terrible terrible hurtful thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amazaria/pseuds/Amazaria
Summary: Different perspectives on what happened inside of Erlenstar Mountain.(or: in which nobody has something even vaguely reminiscent of a good day.)





	As all the certitudes we had slip away

"Take us back, oh take us back,

oh take us, take us back.  
When the higher hills have turned to blue,  
and the waves are lapping where the children grew;  
[...]  
Muted voices,  
just beyond,  
the silent surface,  
of what has gone."

Take us back, Alela Diane [(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exJoRBSyWTU)

* * *

The worst thing -though perhaps _worst _is an unaccurate qualifier, perhaps the event as a whole is terrible, horrible, devastating-, is that for a moment, it feels _right_.

It feels- feels like rain sliding down familiar windows, feels like watching a flock of birds fly away as the sun rises; it feels so simple that he'd overlook it, it feels like the Fates, or maybe something bigger, have finally tied his thread to the tapestry it was meant to complete. It doesn't feel painful, doesn't feel forced, doesn't feel like a legacy to bear or a perpetual reminder, even if that's what it is. It doesn't feel heavy on his shoulders, a mantle to carry, responsibilities or knowledge he doesn't want to know of.

It's soothing, almost alarmingly soothing; he feels too distant from himself and too close to everything else, hyper-aware of autumn approaching and the ineluctable cold that comes with it, here one day and gone the other, only to finally settle down once the trees are devoid of leaves and the people all clustered into houses.

For a moment, he breathes, _in and out, in and out, _and the perpetual worry in the back of his head subdues; for a moment, he breathes, _in and out, in and out, _and the wind in the leaves sings a reassuring melody, and the old well is falling apart, and the fisherman's day went well, and Tristan is annoyed, and-

For a moment, he breathes, _in and out, in and out_, and his brother is not dead. 

For a moment, he breathes, _and Morgon is not dead._

And then-

oOo

He stands in the field, the pale warmth of the sun barely piercing through the heavy rain clouds Tristan had warned him about this morning. The rain falls, and still he doesn't move; the night falls and still he doesn't move.

Tristan comes to seek him out, guided by the pale light of the stars and the strength of her worry; he closes his eyes as her footsteps draw near, does not think he can bear to see her see him.

(He searches and searches for a hint of pain that is not his, for an echo of what should be echoing. He reaches towards nothing at all, and is met with indifference, or emptiness, and shivers in the rain.)

"Eliard," says Tristan when she reaches him, her worry turning into exasperation, like tea someone let steep too long. "Eliard, what are you doing out here? Your dinner has been cold for hours, and it's raining!"

It is. The raindrops are slow, but there nonetheless; the wheat around him is bending slightly under the weight of water, and if he was to sit down and drop his head in his knees and never raise it again, then his hands would bury themselves in soft, wet soil, that would stain his clothes and maybe become mud should the rain continue.

"It's raining," repeats Tristan, less confidently this time as his silence stretches and takes up space between the two of them, the worry in her voice returning, as strong as it was when she went out to search for him, calling for him amidst houses, and trees, and fields. "Eliard, what happened? You should have been home hours ago."

(_In and out, in and out, _repeats a part of Eliard's mind endlessly, as he searches and searches and searches for a proof that his older brother has ever existed.)

"Eliard, did something happen?" she asks again, and he opens his eyes finally, drinks in the familiar sight of his sister, her hair tussled up by the wind, faded grass stains on her clothes barely visible in the dim light, her feet digging into the earth worriedly.

"Tristan," he says, or whispers, or asks. He stays silent a second, desperately hopes that the word alone will be enough for her to understand, that he will not have to- to say it out loud, to face it again, to tie the start of his reign to the end of another. "I- Morgon, he- _Tristan_."

_In and out, in and out-_

"Oh," says Tristan as softly as she ever can, or maybe even softer. For a moment, Eliard wishes his sight had been stolen along with Morgon's presence, because at least that way he wouldn't have to see the way Tristan's hands unclench loosely, the way her eyes widen and her shoulders rise; the way her gaze falls to the ground, and the way she goes still, still, ever so still, as the rain falls and falls and the seconds slip by them, one and two and twenty; and then he wouldn't know what grief looks like on his sister's face.

And then he wouldn't know-

(And the flow of water they can only barely call a river is flowing gently, and the sheep have taken shelter under the dead old tree that may one day collapse, and there is still no trace of Morgon _anywhere-_

Which only makes sense, really.)

"Oh, Eliard," she says, voice trembling, searching and grasping for what should be right in front of them, either their brother or an explanation, "but- but he was supposed to be safe; how could the High One let anything happen to him?"

The rain falls still.

"How could- he was supposed to _come back._"

(There was supposed to be wedding- Tristan would have fussed over Raederle like their mother wouldn't have been able to do, and would have scolded her brother endlessly, and maybe apologized profusely for the state of their home; and Morgon would have let out a dry remark, and Raederle-

He doesn't know Raederle.

He'll never know Raederle.)

"We will ask the High One's harpist," says Eliard, uncertainly. "He will know- and surely there will be a- a reason, or an explanation, surely there is-"

"What explanation?" Asks Tristan sharply, the edge of her pain turning into something too sharp not to cut him. "What possible explanation could there be for-"

She interrupts herself as the realization hits her all over again, shoulders coming down just as her anger fades, just as the grief that had faded for just a moment takes back its rightful place. The change in her posture is so striking that for a moment Eliard fears she will fall to the ground, fears that the shock and then anger was the only thing keeping her upright, fears, stupidly, that in collapsing she will crush the wheat and rip her clothes. 

"I don't know," he whispers, fighting the urge to sit down for a second, a moment, an eternity. "There must be- there must be something."

(The void where Morgon's legacy should be is strikingly painful, for something that doesn't exist.)

"There must be something," repeats Tristan, frustratedly, the weight of her tears seeping into her voice and making it tremble. "Surely there must."

(_Surely there must, _repeats Eliard to himself, and for each time that he says it he believes it less and less.)

oOo

(_How could he ever leave?_ Whispers Eliard, the shadows of the flickering candle casting hard edges where there is only uncertainty. _How could he ever leave, when-_

_I would leave, _says Tristan, her face set in resolute stubbornness, the pain in her eyes almost unbearably obvious. _I would leave, and I would walk to the ends of the kingdoms, to the High One, and I would ask him all the riddles anyone had ever thought of, should it bring him back._

_I would venture into the harshest snowstorm, I would face the most bloodthirsty beasts, should it-_

She lets her hair cover her face, curls her hands into fists. The massive old wooden table they're seated at dwarfs her, dwarfs them both, like children waiting for the end of a storm, holding hands tightly and flinching at each clap of thunder. It's littered with scars, collected over the years, decades, centuries; Eliard takes a look at the initials all three of them had carved when they were children, wobbly and barely distinguishable amidst the knots of the dark wood, and closes his eyes for the briefest time.

Tristan buries her head into her knees, still sitting on her chair; and she says, with the resentful stubbornness particular to heartbroken children, voice muffled by the linen of her skirt, _I would leave, if it meant he'd come back._

And it must be true for Eliard, too.

It must be.)

**Author's Note:**

> I am eternally heartbroken over this book and its characters
> 
> (There is, possibly, going to be a Deth perspective on that, maybe, if people want it)


End file.
